


city of angels

by attheborder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Celebrity Paradox, Day At The Beach, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing In A Museum, Los Angeles, M/M, Metafiction, Old Married Couple, Slice of Life, Tourism, Vacation, extremely indulgent LA bullshit, it's a sneeb habitat turn around, please do not lick the fourth wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: An angel and a demon visit Los Angeles.Crowley experiments with celebrity-based chaos. Aziraphale learns something interesting about himself.





	city of angels

“Oh, that is brilliant,” said Crowley with a grin, watching a car try to creep across six lanes of moving traffic at an intersection without a stoplight. 

Aziraphale shot Crowley a wildly unamused look that somehow still managed to be affectionate, before clearing the road with a wave of his hand and allowing the silver Prius to scoot gratefully over to the other side.

“Spoilsport,” Crowley grumbled. “He would’ve gotten across eventually.” 

“He was going to be late for work!” 

“Good thing you were here, then.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I was being serious.”

“Oh— oh. Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.

“It’s always a good thing when you’re anywhere, angel. Now stop blushing and let’s go get some tacos.”

***

Crowley hadn’t been to Los Angeles since the early 1950s. He’d engineered the shutdown of the city’s far-flung Red Car trolley network, in favor of the clogged, polluting, neighborhood-disrupting freeways that were being touted as the future of the region.

It had been a nice enough place back then, if a bit dusty, smelling of leaded gasoline and unfiltered cigarettes and the desperation of thousands of souls struggling towards goals of fame and fortune that they were doomed to never meet. Cozy stuff.

But he’d much preferred the area in the late 18th century, when he had been sent over on assignment to make some trouble for the Franciscan missionaries setting up camp south of the mountains. 

“Right here would be a _lovely_ spot for the mission,” he’d told them convincingly, knowing very well that the riverbend he’d pointed to was likely to burst its banks in a catastrophic flood sometime within the next five years. (Served them right, for calling the place _San Gabriel Arcángel._ Ugh.)

Back then, the whole basin had been rolling chaparral hills, with stands of great oaks growing alongside clear streams. The sky was impossibly wide and blue, unmarred as of yet by city fumes, and there was _something_ in the way the sun shone— the quality of light, unburdened and expressive, draping itself across the landscape in shadows darker and more pure than any shadow he could remember seeing, perhaps since the Garden.

Crowley, when he learned that Aziraphale had never been to Los Angeles, laughed in disbelief. An angel who’d never visited the City of Angels? Really?

Aziraphale argued that in over two-hundred-odd years of the city’s existence, he had never heard of a single experience, culinary or theatrical or otherwise, worth traveling to that sordid locale for. 

“If you really are feeling the urge to go all the way to California, my dear,” he’d told Crowley, “there is a very nice suite at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco I’ve been staying in since 1915. And I know some wonderful spots in the Castro—”

“San Francisco is _gloomy,_ angel.”

“It’s lovely, actually,” said Aziraphale crossly. 

“Come on,” pleaded Crowley, “let’s do LA, I want to go to the _beach,_ a _real_ beach, and I can’t be having the Atlantic or the Mediterranean anymore. All of the fish this side of the planet have got it out for me at this point, I’m too much of a known quantity.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips, holding steady eye contact with Crowley in a way that the demon knew very well meant _Go on, if you must._

“They just got their first Michelin-starred restaurants in ten years. And Dudamel is conducting Mahler’s 2nd at the Hollywood Bowl...” 

Crowley resisted the urge to fist-pump the air as he saw Aziraphale’s expression soften. It _had_ been worth doing the research. 

“Mahler’s 2nd?” Aziraphale murmured. “Oh, that would be nice… When did we last see it?”

“Edinburgh Festival,” Crowley reminded him gently, “1974. Bernstein and the London Symphony Orchestra.” 

“Yes! That’s right, how wonderful that was… Well. I suppose a _short_ trip couldn’t hurt. If you _really_ want to go.”

Crowley already had his phone out and was booking the flights before Aziraphale finished his sentence.

***

Joan’s On Third at midday on a Tuesday was crowded with regulars and tourists. Aziraphale stepped up to the counter and proceeded to order a little bit of everything from the deli case. 

Crowley hung back, sipping his cold brew, and looked around the bright and bustling restaurant. He watched a bespectacled teenage boy approach a man so perfectly groomed he had to have been a celebrity of some kind, and then take an awkward selfie with him before rushing back to rejoin his family at their booth. 

This gave Crowley an idea. 

He sat down with Aziraphale at a table by the window; the angel worked his way through the burrata and had just started in on the curried chicken when a trembling young girl in a red hoodie approached their table.

“Excuse me,” she said to Crowley, “I’m a big fan, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed you in—”

She trailed off as Crowley turned his face towards her, expression carefully neutral.

“Oh, I— I’m—” she stammered, face blooming into a full flush of shame. “I thought you were— nevermind, sorry about that…” She wandered unsteadily back to her table; Crowley broke out into a massive, self-satisfied grin.

“What— what was that? Who on earth did she think you were?” asked Aziraphale, totally lost.

“Well, nobody,” said Crowley, as if it were obvious. “I made her _think_ she recognized me from a movie or something, just for a moment, long enough for her to make the _choice_ to approach me— then I turned it off. She’ll be embarrassed for the rest of the day now. Won’t be able to get to sleep for weeks, thinking about that.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Crowley took this lack of disapproval as an endorsement, and also as confirmation that the angel had just made a twenty-dollar bill appear at the bottom of the girl’s purse as an apology. 

***

At the beach, just off the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, they sat close enough to the bustle of the shore that the laughs of children were audible through the sound of the crashing waves. 

Crowley was sprawled out on a stripy beach towel like a starfish, on his stomach with his bare back to the sky. It was a good thing demons couldn’t get sunburned. 

Angels, however, _could_ get sunburned— or at least, this angel could. Aziraphale had been judicious about protection ever since an underestimation of the sun’s intensity at the walls of Jericho had left him with some rather nasty peeling on his nose and cheeks. 

Crowley had not reacted very well to Aziraphale’s idea of bringing along his favorite bathing costume from 1910 (“that’s not an idea, that’s a threat, and you know it”), so instead the angel wore an oversized broad-brimmed straw sun-hat, a loose cotton overshirt, and white linen pants. A wide umbrella and comfortable beach chair had been miraculously waiting for him upon their arrival. 

Crowley, for his part, was wearing a tiny black Speedo. Behind his shades, Aziraphale knew, his eyes were half-closed in the sleepy, sun-drunk manner of a reptile having a very, very nice day. 

Crowley stirred, levering himself up onto an elbow and then sinuously rolling onto his back; Aziraphale looked up from his beach read ( _The Library Book_ by Susan Orlean) and gazed happily down at the way the clear light spread itself like syrup across the surface of Crowley’s chest. 

“There you go,” he said, “I was worried I’d have to flip you over like a hamburger.” 

The demon, with a lazy hand, raised his sunglasses and blinked sleepily over at Aziraphale. The angel thrilled silently at the sight of Crowley’s sunflower irises, as he always did, even after all this time.

“I’m not a piece of meat,” said Crowley. 

“But you _do_ look—”

“Oh, do _not_ say it.”

“—scrumptious, my dear.” 

“Go back to your book.”

Aziraphale did just that, as he let his hand wander over to where Crowley’s lay against the red terrycloth, and gently laced their fingers together. 

***

The Hollywood Bowl was nestled up in the hills above the city. As the late July sun dipped below the horizon, Aziraphale and Crowley settled themselves into their box seats, from which they’d have a wonderful view of the conductor and the Philharmonic. 

Crowley was disappointed that the BYOB policy of the venue meant he couldn’t experience the joy of illicitly sneaking in alcohol. He didn’t bother to bring any along, because what was the use, if you were actually _supposed_ to? 

Luckily, the Bowl had a tremendous food and wine menu, and Aziraphale wasted no time ordering a large spread of the best of everything to tide them over during the concert.

Crowley pulled his party trick again right before the symphony was due to start. A man wearing a baseball cap approached sheepishly, phone in hand. He tapped the demon on the shoulder.

“‘Scuse me, sir, but can I take a picture with you, my wife loves your— oh.” Crowley turned, and the man stammered to a halt. “I, um. Disregard that. So sorry, sir. Have a nice night.”

Crowley wheezed himself silly as the man abashedly slipped back into the crowd, until he noticed Aziraphale’s reproachful expression and put his hands up in defense. 

“That’s what they get, for being so damnably willing to interrupt someone like that in public,” he said. “Also, it’s _fun._ ”

Aziraphale sighed. He, of all people, could not argue with fun. 

The show began; the swell of the symphony filled the acoustically-perfected amphitheater with horns and strings. Around them, the gentle hum of appreciative humanity gave Aziraphale a buzz that competed pleasantly with the wine, and the warmth of Crowley by his side, and the frisson of such a virtuosic performance.

By the time the final notes of the concert rang out, and dissipated slowly into the warm air of the canyon around them, Crowley’s head was resting on Aziraphale’s steady shoulder. 

“That was _lovely_ ,” Aziraphale said, basking in the afterglow. 

“Season tickets for next summer?” said Crowley, a little too enthusiastically. All that sun earlier might have gone to his head worse than the wine. 

Aziraphale gave him a look which meant _Slow your roll, my darling._ Crowley apologetically kissed him on the cheek.

On their way out, they wandered past a lookout point, and lingered for a moment there, gazing out over the halogen constellation of the city below. 

“It’s very big, isn’t it,” said Aziraphale matter-of-factly.

“Uh huh.”

“One of yours?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Still,” said Aziraphale, “I think I might actually _like_ it.”

***

The next day, they took a swan pedalboat out into Echo Park Lake. Crowley very deliberately did not mess with any of the ducks. From across the water, Aziraphale saw a little boy’s ice cream about to fall off the cone, and gently miracled it back into place.

Afterwards, they headed downtown. Crowley noted with satisfaction the desperately, infuriatingly slow crawl of traffic down the 101 during a decidedly non-rush-hour time of day. Aziraphale couldn’t find anything at all he liked about the freeway, so he just gazed at Crowley instead. 

The line for Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Room exhibit at the Broad Museum was, well, infinite. Aziraphale really wouldn’t have minded waiting in the queue, but he was with Crowley, who had never met a line full of humans he didn’t want to annoy by cutting to the front. 

So, with a roll of Aziraphale’s eyes they were ushered to the entrance of the exhibit, and then through its doors ahead of the next party in the queue.

Inside, it was like night. Glimmering points of light stretched off into a vertiginous distance in all directions, forming the inside of a crystalline matrix that seemed to go on forever and ever. It was like being within a galactic cloud; like they had stepped outside of time itself and landed somewhere impossible.

Hypnotic and ethereal, the lights surrounded Aziraphale, steady and jewel-bright. Crowley was still and quiet beside him; in the mirrors all around, the two of them were reflected together, over and over, worked into the very fabric of this pocket dimension. 

After a few minutes, Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the lines of endless light long enough to look up at Crowley. Reflections were dancing on the surface of his shades, echoing the pinpoints in miniature. And, below the lens on his sharp cheek, a splash of a single tear.

Aziraphale wordlessly lifted his hand to brush it away. 

“It’s… yeah,” sniffed Crowley. “Mhm.”

“You don’t have to say anything, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I know.”

He wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist, patient and calm, as Crowley took deep, steadying breaths against him. Aziraphale looked out at the lights and thought, in an abstract and fond sort of way, of how the glimmering lines reminded him of the city stretched out below the Hollywood Hills last night, that diamond fractal of human desire and invention repeated here, on a scale at once both smaller and vaster. 

And then, quite quickly, he wasn’t thinking about that at all, because Crowley had drawn his face to Aziraphale’s and they were kissing, dizzy amidst the shine. Aziraphale, held so tightly, felt as if he could almost float off the ground and into the mirrored distance; he was just a little disappointed when Crowley pulled away, after a bit, and motioned back towards the entrance.

“Let’s not hold everyone else up, angel,” he said, voice gone a bit hoarse, “I think, um. People really ought to see this.”

They emerged, blinking, back out into the lobby. Aziraphale began to wander on instinct over towards the gift shop, where he could see an invitingly large selection of art books stacked to the ceiling.

He was stopped by a tug on his sleeve from behind him. A plump lady in a ponytail was looking nervously at him.

“Ooh, sorry to be a bother— but can I get a selfie with you?” The lady smiled expectantly. 

“Ah,” he said, “er, alright—” 

The lady leaned in and snapped a picture with her front-facing camera. Crowley bent himself smoothly out of frame, watching with unconcealed amusement.

“Thanks! Such a fan, really!” said the lady, who then ducked away, waving gratefully at a stunned Aziraphale before disappearing out the door of the museum. 

“Crowley!” hissed Aziraphale as soon as the woman was out of sight. “It was bad enough you doing all that nonsense for yourself, but _I_ certainly never asked for—” 

“That wasn’t me,” said Crowley.

“ _What?_ ”

“Really! I didn’t lift a finger that time.” And now Crowley was circling Aziraphale, like he often did, but with more purpose. He was scrutinizing the angel’s face, as though trying to divine some unforeseen secret hidden within.

“Stop doing that,” Aziraphale whined. “Stop it!” 

“You must _actually_ look like someone famous,” said Crowley, his expression morphing into delighted incredulity.

“But— but _who?_ ” said Aziraphale, nervously patting down his clothes, as if the name of his doppelganger would be hidden somewhere in the folds of his waistcoat. 

“No idea.” Crowley’s beaming smile was not comforting at all. “Come on, angel, let’s go. Our reservation at N/Naka’s in an hour, and I can feel how bad the 10’s backed up from here.” 

***

The place was newly double-starred, and for good reason. Course after course of the most divinely interpreted Japanese cuisine appeared before them, each accompanied by a tastefully selected beverage. 

“You know,” said Crowley, watching Aziraphale slurp down his unagi, “I’ve said it before, but it does bear repeating, at a time like this.” 

“Mm?” Aziraphale hummed through his mouthful. 

“I’m really, _really_ glad the world didn’t end.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Say it however many times you want,” he said, “I’ll always agree.”

Near the end of their meal, just as dessert was served, Aziraphale began to have the strangest sense that someone was watching him. At first he thought it was just lingering paranoia after the incident in the museum, but then Crowley must have felt it as well, because he shot a deadly glare over the angel’s shoulder.

“Couple behind you. Whispering and pointing. Well, not anymore.”

“They must think I’m— well, whoever people seem to be thinking I am. How mortifying.”

Crowley scowled. “Not fair,” he said. “Why do you get to _actually_ look like someone, while I’ve got to make do with demonic trickery? In what world are _you_ the Hollywood one?”

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale pouted.

“It is, just a bit.” 

They settled the bill, and had a near-miss when both of them almost forgot about American tipping— one of Heaven’s, originally, meant to encourage generosity, but the humans had really done a number on it, as per usual. But at the last second they remembered, conjured an appropriate cash amount onto the table, and departed.

Outside the restaurant, there was a man leaning up against a black car, parked at the curb. He had a large camera strapped to his chest, bearing a larger flash, and was busy looking bored in a determined way.

His name was Kevin, and he had been told Kim Kardashian had a reservation here for tonight, but so far she had utterly failed to do anything resembling showing up. So when the two men stepped out of the restaurant, and his fine-tuned mental celebrity recognition system lit up with a match for the blonde guy on the left, he decided that this B-lister would have to suffice for tonight. He hefted the camera up and began snapping. 

_FLASH._ “Hey, hey, over here!” _FLASH._ “Are you dating anyone?” _FLASH._ “Scuse me, scuse me, can you look over here please, Mr. Sh—”

With a fluid motion, Crowley waved at the camera and it exploded, in a shower of sparks and melting plastic. Kevin shrieked and stumbled backwards, tripping over a bike rack and landing hard on the pavement. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him swiftly away from the scene, off down the street.

“And— and don’t do it again!” shouted Aziraphale rather uselessly over his shoulder. Then he remembered he could do miracles, and with the gentlest of angelic efforts arranged it so that the paparazzo would wake up the next morning with a deep and urgent need to receive a graduate degree in nonprofit administration.

They hurried themselves around the corner. Reaching the quiet edge of a residential street, they stopped, looked around, and took a moment to recover. Aziraphale straightened his bow-tie nervously. Crowley ran a bewildered hand through his hair, and was the first to speak. 

“That was... very, very weird.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Aziraphale, “I don’t like this city much at all.” 

“Right. Yeah. Er. Back to London?” 

“As soon as possible. Please.” 

“Next time we’ll do San Francisco. I promise.”

***

(And don’t worry. They never did manage to find out who he looked like. That would have been just a bit too… ineffable.)

***

**Author's Note:**

> tbh it is only my deference to the great man himself that stopped me from taking this any further into Mistaken For Sneeb territory. don’t ask me if DT actually exists or not in this verse because i have no fucking idea .... 
> 
> ALTHOUGH i will tell you that this sort of thing would only happen when they're in LA, and not in London etc, bc LA is wholly haunted with the ghosts of stories and the walls between narrative worlds are thin here. 
> 
> CONTEXT:
> 
> [the real-life intersection from the opening scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNj0O9NBf1c)
> 
> [yayoi kusama's infinity mirror at the broad](https://cdn2.lamag.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/6/2017/10/Kusama20.jpg)
> 
> [ECHO PARK SWAN BOATS](https://mk0wheelfunrentqnvtf.kinstacdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/Swan-Boat-Rentals-Welcome-Image-e1538173672376.jpg)


End file.
